


Soul String

by P3rs3phon3_of_th3_Spring



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman - Fandom, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Justice League (2017)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Chubby Reader, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, She/Her, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, bruce is so in love like boy this is supposed to be a slow burn, i'll leave that at that, please don't read if this kind of stuff triggers you, plus size reader, reader has self harm scars, reader is a crow mother, reader uses she/her pronouns, this will get happy, trigger warnings will be placed on each chapeter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27982215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/P3rs3phon3_of_th3_Spring/pseuds/P3rs3phon3_of_th3_Spring
Summary: One night when you're at a low point, when your mind is plagued by negative thoughts your soulmate reaches out to you, a thing they've never done before in your lifetime.Unknown to you, the only reason your soul mate hasn't reached out before is because he's afraid of hurting you, for he is the Batman.(Bruce Wayne/plus size female reader)
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Reader, Bruce Wayne/You
Comments: 28
Kudos: 84





	1. Prologue - The First Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning:  
> Self harm scars, mental health struggles, alcohol consumption, suicidal thoughts, mention of past self harm.
> 
> Here are some suicide hotlines from all over the world if you need it (link to Tumblr post):  
> https://petalier.tumblr.com/post/188047585003
> 
> I normally get my spark of creativity in the middle of the night so sorry for any mistakes, they will be changed later.

The weather is dull and dreary but what can you do? It is Gotham after all.

  
With you jacket zipped up to your chin and your backpack weighting you down you trudge from home to the two-story book shop you work at. Your broken shoes suck up all the small puddles that were created the night before, dampening your socks.

  
The storm had calmed you down last night but you still don’t get enough sleep, at least you got a couple of hours of rest. The rain that had pattered on your bedroom window had lulled you into a deep dreamless sleep for those small two hours. It was a pain that morning mopping up the rainwater that had leaked from the old wooden windows that don’t fit in the walls properly but it was easily fixed with an old bunched up towel.

  
The bags under your eyes are smaller and lighter than before but you still look too tired. That’s what you always look like though. You always look tired.

  
Nothing can break the almost happiness you have; you somehow feel alive unlike most days where you drag your feet around like a zombie. You feel stable today and that is better than calling in sick to work, faking sickness because your depression has hit too hard.

  
Normal and stable is good.

  
Anyway, the tiny bit of optimism in your head keeps on telling you that your day will go great so you blindly believe that glimmer of optimistic hope buried in your mind.

  
You dodge a businessman not looking where he’s going as you get to your place of work.

The building in front of you is nothing special. It’s a two-story property that spans about three buildings wide. To your very left is a coffee shop with a flat above it. To your very right near the traffic lights is a laundromat with the upstairs residence being boarded up. And in the middle is the overly bright chain bookshop that tries to shove the latest trashy book down your throat. The light up sign (which doesn’t properly work) says ‘Star books!’ the chain shop originating in the famed Star city.

  
You scoff at the new book display in the main widow. On a fake velvet cushion is the book named ‘In the dead of night.’ A thin blonde woman is cosying up to a masked man that looks too much like the Gotham Bat on the cover.

“Typical.” You laugh as you as the motion censor takes its sweet time opening the sliding doors for you. It seems like every month there seems to be a new Batman X white woman novel thinly veiled as a classy but tragic love story. But you got to hand it to the women who write these books, they’re most certainly making more money that you are.

  
Stepping into the shop you wave to you manager (and the only other full-time employee) with a sweet smile. You scrap your wet shoes on the welcome mat and automatically head upstairs to your sanctuary.

  
The downstairs of the book shop is the run of the mill book shop. The newest novels are shoved in your face, there is novelty stationary and boardgames and the rather large kid sections that often holds weekly story times for tired parents and their hyper children. The bright colours are an assault to your eyes. However, the second floor is where you reside.

Beginning to take off your bag and jacket, revealing the bright blue uniform shirt that hugs you in all the wrong places you step on the flat escalator and stride up the stepless machine. It was installed so many years ago when regulations came in stating that there must be wheelchair access.

  
“Ugh, they really need to update this.” You mutter as you almost trip over the old technology, “If I can’t get up it then how is a wheelchair user meant too?”  
With one last trip you arrive to your domain.

Old book shelves rise high filled with classic literature and older books. Everything from Shakespeare to poetry. Volumes upon volumes of encyclopaedias, textbooks and every dictionary you can think of. A small corner is packed with traditional art supplies; sketch books, oil paints, brushes and dip pen inks. Everything just smells homely unlike the downstairs that smells like the contaminated Gotham air. Unfortunately, there aren’t any windows for your space doesn’t take up the whole floor. To the side near the small desk is a door that leads to a storeroom that hardly anyone goes in apart from you.

  
You shimmy yourself into to the storeroom, placing you bag in your locker before going back out to the desk.

  
Standing, you check the cash register and put on you name tag that states you name too enthusiastically.

“Hello, I’m (y/n), can I help you with anything?” you begin to repeat to yourself.

  
Just because you’ve worked here for over two years doesn’t mean that the anxiety doesn’t bubble up in you every morning. You hold the name badge out like a customer is there reading it, the fabric of your uniform stretching from your plush form.

The black string with waves of white through it glows silently, indicating that your soulmate is still alive. Anxiety shoots through you, your breathing starts to become quicker. You drop you badge that is attached to your shirt and pull down the long black undershirt down past you hand, trying to stop the glowing from taking up your peripheral vision for the rest of your shift.

  
“And breath.” You inhale as you slump in your spiny chair, waiting for your first customer, the soul string glowing against you scared skin. The string ebbs down under the sleeve as you calm down. The old book smell fills your senses.

  
You’re not going to let the size too small uniform or the scars on you arms or the glowing string around you left wrist get you down. There is still that bit of optimism left.

Normal is good, stable is good.

-•- -•- -•-

The day is long but uneventful, which is pretty normal for a Wednesday.

  
The normal middle-aged people had perused the classic fiction section, you had helped a sweet girl find a copy of the Hobbit (you had even given her a free bookmark which got you a happy smile) but now you sit waiting for your shift to end.

The clock on the wall ticks ever closer to six o’clock. Normally you get off at six leaving your manager to do the last two hours by himself. Only on a few occasions do you stay till closing times, whether that be because there is a late-night book signing or you need to fill in for you manager.

  
The next guest author is next month, it says it on your small table calendar.

“Damn, I’m really looking forward to it.” You pout wanting the thing to be sooner, “I want to see the genius woman who is writing the Batman fanfiction books.” As you pout at the calendar a woman bolts up the escalator with her mopey teenage son in tow. She heads straight to you.

  
“Excuse me?” she polity calls, her voice with an obvious Gothamite twang, “Can you help me find a textbook for my son?”

  
“I certainly can help you ma’am.” a saleswoman smile is on your face as you stand up.

  
With a small hand movement, you show the woman to the section that holds the textbooks.

  
“What kind of textbook do you need?”

  
The woman, who looks too tired and slightly annoyed, turns to her son.

  
“Jeremy! What subject?” her son huffs and mumbles out what you think is the word ‘chemistry’ but you’re not one hundred percent sure.

A mini argument starts to happen between the teenager and his mother. It’s not mean or horrible in anyway, the two just seem too tired and you can probably guess the son isn’t doing well in school. Whilst they bicker you see glowing around the woman’s hand. You try not to stare at the rose-pink colour that radiates through her drab green coat but your eyes are stuck. Not everyone has a soul string, or at least the theory is that not everyone has a visible one, so it’s rare to see another person with a visible one.

  
It’s literally a one in a million chance.

  
Soul mates are a funny thing.

Apparently, everyone has their other half, their best friend, whether that be platonic or not is up to the couple. Everyone is connected by that glowing string but hardly anyone can see their soul strings. It’s an odd but simple thing.  
People who can see their own soul string can see other ‘soul string seers’ strings, ‘soul seers’ being people who can see their soul string. You can’t see a non ‘soul seers’ string but you can see the mother’s string glowing from under her coat.

  
This means that she’ll eventually notice yours. Nervousness builds up once more but it doesn’t leave with slowed down deep breaths. Your left arm goes behind you back hiding the black sting that leads out the shop to your soulmate, you she hasn’t seen your low hanging string.

  
“Sorry about that.” The rose coloured woman wearily apologises.

  
“It’s totally fine ma’am.” You’re definably saying ma’am too much, “Do you need a specific chemistry textbook, many for like a certain grade?”

  
“My son is in grade eight.” You nod your head and scan the bookshelf, easily finding a row of different grade eight science books.

  
“Um, here-“ you point to a row with a non-glowing hand, “These are the grade eight science books, there’s bound to be something useful here.” With another nod of the head and a thank you from the woman, you duck out to your desk.

For the next ten minutes the mother and son bicker over which textbook the son needs.

  
You watch intently but not at the disagreement. No. You watch the warm pink glow of the string that in attached to the woman’s right wrist. The soul string, like everyone else’s, lies snug around her wrist but unlike yours hers wraps around her hand and fingers like a net. She must have met and stayed with her soulmate. The string knotted around her wedding ring shows that she loves them truly, whoever they are, maybe they’re even married.

  
“I wonder what it’s like” you whisper to yourself looking under the sleeve at the plain and simple loop around your wrist. You’ve never met your soulmate, you haven’t even been near them, though you do think then live in Gotham.

  
During your idle daydream the rose woman places a few textbooks at the register.

  
“You do returns, right?” she asks startling you out of the daydream.

  
“Yeah, just as long as you don’t lose the receipt.” You tell her, automatically scanning the heavy books, “Though if you do lose it then I can secretly allow you to return the books.”

  
You have been working in the Gotham book shop for too many years and you’ve seen enough tantrums from customers who’ve lost their receipts. It’s really not worth kicking up the fuss; if the books are in good condition then you’ll happy do returns.

  
“Don't tell my boss though!” you joke making the woman laugh, “Would you like a bag?”

  
“No thank you my dear-“ my dear? That seems awfully kind, “Jeremy can put them I his bag.” The teen boy groans at his mother, a pissed of look on his face.

  
The rose pink woman hand you some money. You take out the change and recipe and place it in her hands however before you can pull away her other hand take yours. You try to pull back but she grabs on tight.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Her face is sad but you’re not sure if she’s really sad or if she’s putting it on.

  
“Pardon?” you croak knowing what’s about to come.

  
“It’s very sad when a soulmate passes, especially when you haven’t met them yet.”

  
The black soul string around your wrist swallows up the white swirls up, your remaining optimism disappearing.

  
You see, a person’s soul string turns a very dark grey when their soulmate dies, the glowing fading to nothing and string going limp. Your string is black with white parts and whilst white glows the colour black kind of doesn’t. Sure, your string glows just fine but without looking at it up close most people think that your soul string is death grey. It also doesn’t help that the small white threads wilt and fade when you or your soulmate is feeling down.

  
It’s an odd colour for a soul string.

  
Gosh, for most of your childhood you and every healthcare professional though your soulmate was dead. Only when the incident happened did your dark grey sting form into black and white glowing string, only then did you know you weren’t alone.

  
“You’re far too young my dear for this to happen to you.” Her words sound sincere enough but your mood is still damped like your damp shoes. Her son gives you an apologetic look as she takes her hands off you and takes the books off the desk, he must be used to his mother doing things like this.

  
“I’ll pray for you my dear.”

  
Yay! Another prayer, like you haven’t heard that same line over and over again in your short lifetime. All you can do is chock out a “thank you” as the woman and her son go down the descending escalator.

  
Letting out a frustrated silent scream, you sit back down and wait for work to end.

-•- -•- -•-

With you jacket hugging your plush body you walk down the road hugging your backpack. You feel some comfort form the bag but your heart starts to ache and your feet feel heavy.  
Things like your black soul string always trigger your depressive episodes. Like moth of a lightbulb, you drag your feet to a corner shop a few blocks away from your apartment.

  
“Snack time!”

  
Yeah, comfort eating isn’t the best thing but you are very hungry.

  
The bell rings as you enter the shop, you wave to the familiar face of a spotty teenager behind the counter. A small “sup” echoes through the shop as the teenager greets you.  
With a nod of you head you trudge to the snack section which is basically most of the back of the shop. You dig through your bag, retrieving your wallet, looking through at the loose change you have.

  
“I can get a big bag of popcorn but then I can’t get a drink.” With your pointer finger you recount the money in your hand.

  
One dollar. Two dollars. Three dollars, 50 cents. Four dollars and 56 cents.

  
You count again but nothing changes. With a sigh you gab a smaller bag of popcorn and you go over to the cola machine to fill up a medium cup.

  
“Any discounted food?” you ask the skater boy teenager at the register. Normally there is nearly out of date food for cheaper prices for sell at the register.

  
“Got some cookies.” He points to the probably stale cookie packets at the front desk next to his till. With a pleased humph you grab two packets of the cookies.

Dollar fifty popcorn. Two dollar cola. Two bags of off cookies for two dollars. Six cents change.

  
“That’s a lot dude.” The mop of greasy hair points out as he scans your items.

  
He doesn’t mean any harm, you know that, but with your now low mood you sink lower into sadness.

  
“I guess it is kid.” You hand him the money, your face now droopy, “Keep the change, goodnight.”

  
Shoving most of the food in your backpack you exit the shop sipping your cola. It doesn’t even taste like cola; it just tastes like sugar and chemicals.

-•- -•- -•-

The TV hums as you sit on the floor resting against the tattered sofa in the middle of your living room/dining room/kitchen. An old Spanish language soap opera has been entertaining you for the past couple of hours but you’re now distracted from the show. Your tummy aches from stuffing your face with the stale cookies and salty popcorn.

  
In the moment of eating you felt fake happy; probably from the sugar rush but now you feel sick.

  
Your already soft and pudgy tummy is now bloated making you feel angry at yourself. In these small seconds you always take two steps back off the self-love road you’re travelling on. You’re happy at the weight you’re at but moments like these make you think so many negative things.

  
When you were extremely depressed and without a job you were very unhealthy and way bigger, the type of unhealthy that meant you couldn’t even get up a set of stairs without being out of breath and achy.  
That was a dark, dark time for you.You didn’t wash for weeks and you depressed napped all day, staying up all night watching the TV. The only reason you had lost that depression weight you had put on and gotten a decent job was because you went to a mental health facility for your problems.

  
It is undisputed that you love the size you are despite having your bad days. And despite not being the most confident you still like the idea that people see you as pretty. But stuffing you face when you’re depressed never helps, even if the comfort eating helps in the short run.

  
So, after you take one last look at you bloated tummy the tears start pouring down your face. They are ugly tears. Big and fat, the type of tears you cried when you were a child.

-•- -•- -•-

Silence can kill a person.

The rain hasn’t come again even though the sky is full of dark, pitch black clouds. There’s no pitter patter of rain to distract you from you mind which is overthinking everything you’ve done this month.

  
That black dress you wore out that last Saturday? You mind tells you that you looked ugly and fat in it. That woman who had flirted with you at the bar? You mind is telling you it was a cruel joke.

  
You sniff, tears somehow still flowing freely. A beer is in your hand, it’s the last beer of the pack that was at the back of your fridge. Your tummy isn’t bloated any more but you don’t notice, or you don’t care.

“Did Gem cancel on me because I’m annoying?” you mumble, sipping your beer some more. Your friend Gemma cancelled on you because of a medical emergency in her family but your drunk mind is telling you that she cancelled because she hates you.

  
“Does my boss see my self harm scars?” In your dizzy state you take off your tops, taking off the long-sleeved layer with it. The soul string slowly ripples, a small white strand appearing.“You must be happy Mx-no-Miss-no-Mr soul mate?”

The tips of your fingers ghost the many old and paling thin lined scares on your arms, you (s/c) contrasting the once dark thick scars that have aged and dulled over time. Your drunk mind is overflowing with ‘what ifs?’ and negativity. But here’s the thing, you’re beautiful and you haven’t done anything wrong. However, a broken heart and a mind clouded by alcohol does funny things to people, it’s doing funny things to you.

  
Sobs vibrate your body, your black soul string is vibrating too. Mr. Soul Mate can defiantly feel your sobs through the shared string.

Your mind goes to a morbid things.

  
“If I follow this sting to you, I’ll probably find a grave.” You slur to you soul mate like they’re in front of your face, “I’ve been told the string doesn’t go poof when you die, it stays with you and the corpse in the ground, well unless you get cremated” You laugh at your little half joke, the laugh turning back in to cries.

  
In the dark, the string looks dark grey and you can’t tell if the glowing is from the string itself or your blurry tired eyes.

  
“Even if you are alive, you’ve shown you’re happy without me.”

-•- -•- -•-

Bruce Wayne is not happy.

  
He currently sits sulking in the Batcave, his nose bloody and his body badged up. He breaths are heavy and his chest hurts every time he exhales. None the less, he isn’t worried about his battle wounds for they are an everyday thing for him. What isn’t an everyday thing to him is his soul string vibrating to the rhythm of sobs, your sobs, the white had disappeared from the now pitch-black thread.

  
Bruce has no clue who you are but his heart always breaks just a tiny bit more when he feels the vibrations that signify you are crying. It’s kind of poetic the way the shared string hums, like someone is plucking at a harp string.

  
He so wants to pluck the soul string to show you that he’s there but he always stops himself; he can’t bring you into his life no matter how much he wants you in it. A person with such sadness being flung into the public spotlight, open to ridicule and hate. He doesn’t even want to think about what harm you may face if you knew he is Batman. Bruce had tried to ignore you in the past, he had convinced himself that you’d eventually get over your low points but he just can’t take it any more.

  
Batman and the Wayne fame be damned! He needs you and you need him.

That day he had a nice dinner date with a skinny swimwear model, he had planned on wooing her in to bed however he had practically ditched the date when he saw your shared soul string waver. It was a dick move ditching his date especially considering he did nothing to help you after he had left the pretty woman, instead he just brooded back at Wayne manor. Then there was the bank robbery by some of Penguin’s goons that he had to stop. He hadn’t seen the string turn pitch black nor did he feel the vibrations as he fought the enemies.

  
So, by the time he was home and patched up Alfred he had only then realised that all he could feel was the strumming of his soul string on his wrist like a blade cutting deep.

A frustrated growl like sound comes from Bruce’s lips. He doesn’t want to interact with you this way but he knows he must or he might lose you.

  
Bruce has had too many dreams about his first meeting with you. He has it planned out; he would take you to the best restaurant in Gotham, which he has a permanent reservation in for the day he has the guts to seek you out. Bruce would just sit and listen to you talk for hours upon end and he would finally feel whole for once in his life.

  
He he pinches the soul string, twanging it against the back of his hand spelling out a message in the common ‘soul mate code’.

“Hello.” It is a simple message but it’s a strong one that stops the string from vibrating, you stop crying.

  
Bruce waits impatiently, staring at the string that begins to glow with a small wisp of white.

  
The first thing he gets from you is a simple question.

  
“You’re alive?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfic is merely an outlet for my feelings as a plus size woman with some issues who also loves DC comics/films.  
> I will not be writing graphic scenes of self harm but I will be going into the reader's past which does involve a suicide attempt.  
> However, when this comes up I will use the right trigger warnings and I won't go into graphic details about it, I'd rather write about emotion than gore. 
> 
> That being said this is a Batman fic so there will be fight scene in the future. I may or may not do smut, I'm not sure yet.  
> If there is smut I will make it skippable for all my people who don't like reading that stuff.
> 
> Anyway, serious things aside Ben Affleck's batman could have been something soooo good so this is also my attempt at a fix it fic.  
> Also please don't steal this, thanks!  
> -•- -•- -•-  
> To repeat here are some suicide hotlines from all over the world if you need it (link to Tumblr post):  
> https://petalier.tumblr.com/post/188047585003
> 
> Please tell me is I've missed any trigger warnings and/or is this like doesn't work or if it's outdated.


	2. She's like an angel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Bruce's first words to you, your night becomes slightly worse.  
> The day after, when you're hung over and all mopey, you decide to sort out you soul mate yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: NONE

_“You’re alive?”_

You’re no longer shaking like a leaf in the wind. The soft glow of white illuminates your left arm, the black and white sting still playing out the short and simple vibrating message you’d sent.

Bruce lets out a sign of relief. He is alive. You’re alive!

Alfred is now in the Batcave, giving Bruce a sceptical look.

“Master Bruce what seems to be the matter?” He asks as he walks closer to the sitting down Bruce.

“I’m talking to them.” Bruce looks up at his farther figure, a rare smile blooming on his handsome but bruised face.

It’s an entirely simple sentence. Anyone else would have been utterly confused without the context of the situation but Alfred knows what Bruce means right away.

Normal people would have hugged each other in such monumental moment but Alfred, knowing Bruce isn’t really the hugging type, walks over and pats him on the shoulder. He’s really is like a proud father when it comes to Bruce.

Bruce’s fingers go back to the string, strumming out a message to his soulmate.

“Yes, I’m alive. Are you ok? Do you need some help?” He stops himself asking a barge of questions.

He doesn’t want to overwhelm you.

As he and Alfred wait for your answer you still sit on the floor of your flat. You want to happy cry but your mind is fuzzy from the beers and all the sadness. Bruce doesn’t want to overwhelm you but he has just done that by sending out the simple “hello”.

“NO! I’m not ok!” the alcohol in your system is fuelling the bubbling anger that’s building up.

You stand, your leg beginning to bounce and stomp on the ground in nervousness and frustration.

You feel like punching a wall but you also feel like following the string straight to the man who had ignored you for your whole attire life.

“You’ve ignored my for all of my existence!” You shout as you pluck out the message, the neighbours next door slam on your shared wall telling you to shut up.

You’re fuming.

If it was any other time (aka if you were sober) then you would be so happy to finally connect with your soulmate but the alcohol is doing shitty things to your head.

Beginning to pace the extremely small room is the only thing you can do that isn’t destructive, your hands begin to shake. You go to strum out another message, one filled with rage and sadness, but before you can your foot connects with an empty beer bottle making you trip and almost fall.

It’s somewhat comical how you flop and almost faceplant but you catch yourself.

This time you actually sit down on your sofa instead of the floor. Your foot, that had stepped on the bottle, feels numb but you don’t have the energy to look down at it.

The shared soul string is violently vibrating in quick messages from your soul mate obvious worry in their words. However, you chose to ignore them. If they can ignore you for all your life then why should you give them the time of day.

That’s what your drunk mind is telling you as you lull into a dreamless sleep.

-•- -•- -•-

_BANG BANG BANG_

Banging wakes you from you depressed drunken slumber. Dribble runs down your check and your hair is all mussed up. You wipe your face as you fully wake.

“The neighbour’s must be at it again” you think.

However, they aren’t.

Alfred Pennyworth patiently knocks on your front door waiting for you to rise from the dead. Bruce Wayne worryingly waits for you to answer said door, your shared soul string emitting an almost blinding light from how close the two of you are.

Bruce leans on the wall, his eyes closed and a pair of sunglasses on. He’s only wearing the glasses as a mini disguise but they are really helping him with the white light of the string right now.

“Let me lock pick the door, they could be hurt Alfred.” Bruce demands as Alfred tries another round of melodic knocks on the door.

“Master Bruce that would be breaking and entering.” His face turns to the fidgeting Bruce, “I don’t think your soul mate would like that very much.”

Mister Batman himself might be a fully grown adult but he still has some childlike tendencies that only Alfred can really see. Like how he keeps on swapping which foot touches the wall when he leans against or how he is fiddling with the cufflinks of his shirt, the same shirt he had put on in the car because he was in such a rush to find you. 

Gosh, Bruce had been so frantic when the string had turned fully black, when you’d stopped communicating. It had urged him to find your straight away. He had been in such a rush that he isn’t wearing anything coherent at all.

As Bruce finds more interest in his cufflinks as you stagger up from your death slumber less drunk than before but in more pain. With a spinning head you walk to the door and place the latch on, opening it enough to see the face of Alfred.

To you Alfred looks like a nice old man that you might have woken up from your screaming earlier on whilst you look like you’ve been to hell and back.

“Um, am I making too much noise?” you start off saying to the new face, “I’m normally not loud at all, sorry.”

“Miss I am not here for the noise.” Alfred declares, “I’m Alfred Pennyworth and _we_ are here to see if you’re ok.”

We? You make a ‘one moment’ finger motion, closing the door to take it off the latch. As you re-open the door you see the soul string around your wrist tugging and out of the door.

For two hours Alfred had driven Bruce around Gotham trying to find you, the soul string acting like a GPS for the two men.

The shared string flashes white like an SOS signal, it hurts your eyes.

You re-open the door back up, keeping it somewhat closed due to it being Gotham and break ins being very common. Your body leans out of the door somewhat, making a barrier between Alfred and your home. From this Bruce is able to see his soul mate for the first time in his attire life.

To his you look like an angel; your messed up hair frames you face, your lips are slightly open in a confused look, the way you hold the door shows the soul string so clearly connect to him. You are way younger that Bruce, he knows you must be in your mid-twenties but it does not bother him considering that he is smitten with you right away.

Bruce pushes himself of the wall as you and Alfred talk to one another.

“-I’m really fine sir, there’s no need to worry-“ you begin to babble to Alfred trying to convince the older man that you’re ok despite that the fact that your head hurts and you defiantly have a twisted ankle from you trip over the beer bottle.

“You weren’t fine when we were talking.” Bruce calmly says walking into your view.

You feel numb again, your eyes go wide and your ankle buckles making you almost fall again. Both Bruce and Alfred go to hold you up, your arm twitch away from Bruce’s touch.

“Are you stalking me or something?” you direct to Bruce, who you still haven’t recognised as the ultra wealthy playboy who owns the biggest company in Gotham. I guess you can blame it on the alcohol still in your system, the splitting headache you have and the dark sunglasses Bruce wears.

“No, I’m just worried.” He replies retracting his hand from your arm.

“Well I can’t deal with this right now-“ you point all around, “-I have work tomorrow.”

Nodding a goodbye to Alfred, not even looking at Bruce, you shut your door going straight back to the sofa to sleep.

“I told you to let me handle it.” Alfred articulates, his voice clearly showing disappointment towards Bruce who has clearly flustered you. In the car Alfred and he had made a plan, a plan where Alfred did most of the talking so you didn’t become worried.

But I guess you can’t stop a soul mate finding their soul mate, even if their first impression isn’t good.

-•- -•- -•-

You had almost called in sick today but you really need the rent money so you sit in your spiny desk chair, ankle dully throbbing and head hurting from the hangover. Even the pain pills haven’t helped with you pain for most of its in your heart.

The night before.

You remember everything in that fuzzy drunk kind of way. Now you just feel drained and down, you feel like an idiot.

“…Stupid me…” you mutter as you hug your plush sides. It’s not even mid-day but you just want to run away and cry.

For fuck shake! A butler and your rich man soul mate were at your door and all your tipsy mind could think of doing was shutting the door in their faces.

“Gah!” the odd noise you let out reverberates throughout the top floor.

A couple of minutes of brewing in your own pity and anxiety your manger stomps up the escalator.

He looks blank and monotone but there’s concern in his eyes.

“(Y/n) go home, you’re hurt.” He demands going into ‘dad mode’.

“I’m all good.” Is all you say as you pretend to count the money in the cash register trying to look productive in front of him.

“Kid, we’ve had two customers today and none of them have been up here, I can hold down the fort whilst you get over whatever the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“But I need the money-“ you begin to argue as the older man goes into the store room, returning with your backpack.

“-And you’ll get paid in full.” He throws the bag at you.

You stand and put the backpack on, the hood of your zip up hoodie getting a bit tangled with the straps. You open your mouth but your manager shushes you before you can argue.

“Go home.” He says pushing you down the escalator.

However, you don’t feel like going home.

No.

You’re too curious about the soul string that somehow shines brighter than it normally does.

-•- -•- -•-

Sure you assumed that your soulmate was well off from when you’d met him last night but you were thinking maybe an alcoholic jobless man who lives off his parent’s money or a mighty successful real estate agent rather than someone who works at Wayne Enterprises.

You aren’t ready.

Your soul string leads you to the gigantic Wayne Enterprises building that towers over Gotham city.

You aren’t ready.

The string ascends up to one of the very top floors of the multi million dollar building.

The look on your face is utterly childlike. Too many times you have walked past this tower and not cared but now you’re properly looking at it, you feel insignificant.

“Fucking hell…” you swear as you stare up, “He’s in there!”

You had planned on walking into whatever building your string took you to but now you think it’s a tremendously bad idea. For crying out loud you’re wearing a generic blue uniform and an old ripped hoodie, you don’t think you’d even be let in the tower with what you’re wearing.

“Shit,shit,shit.” Normally you don’t swear so much but given the situation you’ve placed yourself in you think it’s for the best to let all the swear out before you re-meet your soul mate.

With a edgy hop in your step you step towards the entrance of the tower. You almost sprint away as you spot the armed guard at the doors but you’re being brave for once so you walk through the doors. One bag search later and a walk through the metal detector, the guard happily hands your bag to you with an overly joyful "have a great day!"

“They must really like their job.” You think as you return the greeting to the happy armed guard.

Walking through the lobby of the Wayne Enterprise building makes you feel so out of place. The lobby has such high walls and everything is pristine and almost medical like with its white and silver colours.

Maybe it’s from the number of movies you’ve watched but you assume that the lobby would be packed with businesspeople but it isn’t. It’s completely empty except for you, the guards at the door and the woman at the desk who has put on a fake smile just for you.

Clutching at the straps of your backpack you walk over to her desk, a polite smile gracing your face.

“Um, hello-“ you have no clue how to tell her that you soul mate is way up high in the tower.

“Hello ma’am can I see your ID.” She says like a programmed robot.

You quickly swing you backpack around and search through the front pocket for your wallet, you have no clue if she means a company ID or just a normal ID, you hope she’ll take your driver licence.

“I have this ID.” You speak giving her the scratched drivers licence to her, “I don’t have a company ID.”

You look up at the ceiling as the woman scans you ID under some type of fancy machine.

“I just need to wait for the computer to load.” she mechanically says whilst she touch types on her keyboard, “Hard day at work?”

“More of a hard night beforehand than a bad day at work.” you’re not quite sure why she’s talking to you but you assume it’s because she has no one to talk too in the empty lobby.

The typing stops and you hear he franticly right clicking her computer mouse.

“May I get your full name as stated on the card?” she asks.

“(Y/n) (L/n). Miss (Y/n) (L/n). I’m a miss.” You blunder.

For a moment you make eye contact with her but she soon is drawn back to the computer screen.

“Miss (L/n) I’m going to give you a Wayne Enterprises ID that allows you to go almost anywhere in the tower.” Her voice tapers off as she speaks the sentence.

“Wait what?” she hands you back your driver’s licence which you slid back into your wallet.

“It says here that if a ‘Miss (Y/n) (L/n) comes into the building then please give her a level four ID.’”

“What does level four mean?”

She hands you the newly printed ID card attached to a black lanyard supporting the Wayne Enterprises logo.

“It means that you can go all the way up to Mr Wayne’s office if you really want to.”

“Oh… thank you.” Is all you can say to her as you slowly begin to walk away, you can see she really wants to ask you why you’re allowed in the building but she refrains herself.

With an awkward wave goodbye you rush to the nearest lift, which you automatically press the polished button to, the doors swiftly opening for you to step into.

The inside of the lift most certainly costs more than your entire apartment building. The back wall and ceiling are full length mirrors, the left and right sides are decorated with what you’re assuming is some damn fancy wallpaper, the left side having a screen and buttons of the lift system.

A small light flashes, the small screen turning on and the words ‘please scan your ID’ popping up.

You scan your ID and the rows of shiny floor buttons light up showing you which floors you can go to.

“Well then, let’s get pressing.” You randomly pick a high up floor to start exploring on.

-•- -•- -•-

Five floors later of aimlessly checking for your soulmate later and you still haven’t found him.

It’s most likely because you’re too scared to actually follow the string directly to him, so you just wonder around like a headless chicken in the general direction your soul mate is in.

But now you currently stand on the third floor from the top floor just under Bruce Wayne’s office which is under the penthouse on top. The floor feels very open planned but that’s due to the mostly glass walled meeting rooms and modernist interior architecture.

“Is it modernist or minimalist?” your thoughts get away from you as you hover around the small waiting area next to the entrance of the lift and the stairwell going down.

Next to you are two small coffee tables along with chairs and a sofa against a wall. There is minimal art on the walls and there is a sleek vase of flowers on one of the tables.

Your backpack along with your now discarded hoodie lays on the non vase table as you nervously fidget in place debating on whether you should fully follow your string to the end of the floor where it’s leading or stay put in the waiting area.

The meeting rooms in your view aren’t being used but one of the two larger meeting rooms way at the end of the hallway is currently being used for what you’re assuming is an important meeting.

You can hear the muffled discussion going on as your black and white soul string flows into the end room.

“Maybe I can send a message to him?” you think but you decide against it, “he could be in a very important meeting.”

Frustration starts to build up, you foot starts to tap like it always does as you overthink everything.

With a deep breath you decide that you’re just going to walk down the hallway and pretend to investigate the other meeting room then come right back to the waiting area. Hopefully then your soulmate could see that you’re there and if all things fail you can look in the reflection of the glass trying to guess your soul mate from the distorted reflection.

You smooth down your blue work shirt and decent trousers over the arcs of your body, slightly tugging down the shirt that is a bit to short for you liking.

Surely you look ok enough to speed walk to and from the little waiting area without fucking anything up right?

With a silent scream and a tiny anxious hop, you hurry down the hallway.

You pass the empty rooms quite quickly. Your heart is in your throat as you step your scuffed shoe over a line in the laminate wood floor, the first part of your body now in view to all people who can look out of the meeting room window into the hallway.

There’s no going back now.

Your string pulses quicker like your heartbeat as you peek into the empty meeting room pretending to look for someone. The glass, like you thought, shows the distorted view of the people in the meeting room behind you.

They’re all like ghosts. Some are peering at you with spite probably because you obviously don’t fit in on that floor let alone the whole tower. Others don’t even notice your wandering eyes or at least they don’t care if they do. Yet what catches your eyes is the twisted face of a man so familiar to you.

It must be him! His right wrist seems to be glowing and in that split second you watch as his head raise up in what you can only assume is surprise.

But fear and anxiety gets the better of you and you rush back down the hallway to your bag, slumping down in one of the very comfortable but low down chairs.

-•- -•- -•-

Bruce hadn’t slept that night.

His thinking was rash, impulsive and even selfish. He had seen how upset and tipsy you were but he had clearly upset you more. That’s what he is thinking about right now as he listens to the drones of his employees as they try to swindle and kiss his ass.

The meeting, which is something about planning permission, was originally planned for the morning but Bruce had made his assistant re-schedule it to right now due to his lack of sleep and overthinking. He had also got his assistant, who he really has forgotten the name of, to put your name in the Wayne Enterprises system for level four access.

Bruce may or may not have researched you the night before after Alfred dragged him home. To clarify he had only searched you name and basic details, he didn’t want to delve deep into your history like a creep. Anyway, he wants to hear every single thing from you and only you, he doesn’t want to stalk you through a computer screen.

He sits and waits in the boring meeting; two hours go by before his string starts to glow with strands of white. A small text springs up on his phone notifying him that your ID has been issued to you.

“So soon?” he thinks, his brows creasing as he re reads the notice on his phone. He has really been preparing himself to never see you again, as dramatic as it sounds.

“And as you can see I believe this prime piece of land will be great for Wa-“

Gosh, does Bruce want a whisky right now. The ebbing sound of his stuck-up employee chatters on as he sinks lower in his seat.

Nowhere in his big brain does he think about how he owns Wayne Enterprises and about how he can just up and leave the boring meeting. Anyway, if he did that then he’d get an ear full from Alfred, who is already annoyed at him.

As he sinks further down, he sees the face of one of meeting members grimace as they look out the window into the hallway. He follows their eyes to someone who looks out of place, someone who looks too mundane for the suits of Wayne Enterprises.

His soul string pulses like a panicked heartbeat, he rises from his seat as he realises that this panicked heartbeat is just outside of the room peering into the wrong meeting room.

In Bruce’s eyes you look truly beautiful like a goddess gracing his dreams. The shared string illuminates the side of you bathing you in angelic light, it truly takes his breath away.

But as soon as you’re there you disappear.

Bruce has no clue that you’re just a few strides down the hallway slumping in one of the plush chairs so like any sane person he stands and demands that “This meeting will continue tomorrow.” Making everyone exit the room quickly.

As you check your cheap pay as you go phone once more hoping that something would distract you, a sea of businesspeople floods out into the hallway heading to the lift near you.

You look at every wrist of every single person that walks past but you know your soulmate isn’t in the sea of suits, so with one more brave smile on your face you bolt out of the comfy seat and go straight to the once full meeting room.

Every step makes the soul string connecting you both vibrate and glow complexly white until you stand just outside the glass window looking into the room to see Bruce Wayne nervously sipping on some whisky.

When his eyes look up to yours all you can see is undying love and admiration.

Bruce stands, placing his glass down, hurrying to the door to great you. At this very moment you looked more than surprised. Your mouth hangs open and your eyes are wider but you look sweet like a cat looking at someone they love. Even your head tilts a tiny bit as your feet take you to the door which is now being held open by Bruce.

“Y-you’re Bruce Wayne!” you half stutter in wonder as the older man finally smiles for the first time today.

“That I am-“ Bruce holds out his right hand the glowing thread knotted around his wrist like a friendship bracelet that he’d never take off, “-and you’re (y/n).”

Your hand is shaking as you extend it out but the bravery you had just moments ago vanishes completely. Your fingertips ghost his hand so Bruce makes the first move and engulfs your small hand in his calloused and scared hand.

Not to be a cliché but your hands fit with one another’s like a jigsaw puzzle, every bump complementing the other’s hand.

“I-I am (y/n).” you look up to his face but you quickly look away, he’s too handsome if you look at him for even a second you think you might swoon, “I’m sorry for last night, I was a bit drunk.”

“I’m sorry for coming to your unannounced.” He simply says, his hand, which is still holding your hand, no longer shaking yours.

Both of you have a small moment where your connected hands squeeze tighter together however you hand soon drops from his firm grip from embarrassment. You’ve never been so embarrassed nor nervous nor have you blushed so much in your entire life!

“Are-“ both of you go to speak at the same time.

“Please, you speak first.” Bruce tries to argue wanting you to speak first but your hold your ground even though you’re blushing like an idiot.

“Are you hungry?” Bruce simply asks, “I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Are you asking me to lunch Bruce Wayne?” you ask with a hint of cheerfulness in your tone.

“Yes, only if you want too?” his voice is deep and slightly gruff and it’s really making you blush even more.

“I haven’t had much to eat today, so I think I can find some time to eat lunch with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heheheheh, this is going to be a slow burn people! I hope everyone likes it!  
> I've proof read this about three time and I'll do it again in the morning because it's late here and I've probably left a really stupid spelling mistake somewhere.


	3. Oblivious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're pretty oblivious to many things especially when it comes to the feelings of men.  
> Bruce take you to lunch and your go to your weekly art class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: NONE
> 
> Sorry for the short wait everyone, I hope you all like this chapter!

Lunch.

Bruce is taking you to get lunch with him.

Well both of you are actually stuck in a lift that is descending downwards to gosh knows where but he is taking you to lunch.

You've agreed to eat lunch with the richest person in Gotham, that same person being your soulmate. It’s an odd feeling really, your head is spinning and there are too many thoughts, so many thoughts that you feel a headache coming on.

The lift you’re both in is basically the same as the other expensive lifts in the building accept it’s smaller. Bruce had scanned his phone over the little scanner outside the lift's entrance and he's now standing to the far left near the buttons whilst you’re standing to the far right furthest away from him. 

Somehow though your bodies are almost touching. If Bruce where to stretch out his pinkie finger then he’d be touching you.

Oh, how he does want to hold your hand so much.

To think that the Bruce Wayne has fallen head over heals for you in such a small amount of time whilst you’re oblivious to his growing feelings. The two of you are acting much like teenagers; Bruce being lovestruck (which is very out of character for him) and you becoming extremely shy like in your school days.

Whilst your eyes are staring down at your shoes, Bruce’s eyes are looking straight you. He is trying with all his might not to stare too much; he doesn’t want to seem creepy but he can’t take his eyes off you.

“Um-“ Bruce clears his throat, “-this is my private elevator, you can use it too.” His tired hazel eyes still gaze at you as you tilt your head up to look at his face. You don’t mean to lock your eyes with his by you are stuck for just a small moment of bliss looking into his eyes. Is that make up he’s wearing? You swear he had a bruise on his face from the night before.

You carry on staring to Bruce’s delight.

“Y-you mean my ID…” your words taper off as you hold up the lanyard that you is around your neck.

“Yes.” Bruce watches as your face shoots down looking at the ID like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, a light dusting of pink on your face, “You can go anywhere but the more dangerous places at Wayne Enterprises.”

“Dangerous!?!” your hands drop the ID, the lanyard laying slack around your neck once more.

“Places like the labs and tech floors that may have hazardous things on them.” He iterates.

Bruce, though looking very indifferent, is worrying inside. Has he said the wrong thing to you or are you always this nervous?

Before he can blurt out a “are you ok?” the lift doors swish open with a _beep_.

You quickly rush out of the lift, a whoosh of cold air cooling down your blushed face.

“Wait? Cold air?” you think with confusion.

Looking up you’re met with the site of a rather small and very grey underground carpark, well at least a small private part of a carpark. There seems to be a door to the side leading to somewhere else underground and there's also seems to be about twenty parking spaces, half of them filled with shiny looking cars.

“I’m so confused.” You think out loud, not meaning for the thought to escape you lips.

A deep chuckle slips from Bruce along with a small smile.

“This is the private parking garage, that’s connected to the main garage up above.”

A long “o” slips from your lips as Bruce walks in front leading you to a sports car in the very far corner of the car park.

You follow the rich man without even a thought.

The car in front of you in very low down, you feel extremely tall standing near it. Bruce opens the passenger seat door for you to get in. It takes a moment to realise that he’s opens it for you but once you do realise you give him a small “thank you”.

Getting into the small car amplifies how big you feel. The seat is thin, the back rest is thinner and you feel too close to Bruce when he climbs into the driver’s side of the car. Panic starts to bubble up like carbonation in a fizzy drink and you don’t know how to stop it. All you fell like you can do to calm down is hug you backpack like a teddy bear.

You have anxiety about your softer body but you are unaware to the fact that the seats in the car are just too small for anyone, it takes a while for Bruce to get comfortable in the leather driver’s seat, his shoulders being too wide for the back rests. The way he sits makes his thighs hang over the sides of the seat, really amplifying that the car is too small for anyone to sit in.

To be honest Bruce only bought the sports car as a statement piece, something to show the public that he is still the playboy billionaire that they all know and hopefully love.

Alfred had driven him into work that morning because he was too tried, too hurt and stressed over the whole soulmate situation to drive, so even though he feels uncomfortable in the car, Bruce is glad that he even has one to drive.

He wonders if you’re impressed by the car, he wonders if you’re even the type of person who would swoon over expensive cars like this one.

“Probably not.” He thinks as puts on his seatbelt and starts up the car with a press of a button.

The car hums to life, the electric engines quietly powering the small thing. Cool blue lights glimmer on giving bit of colour in the grey that surrounds you two.

Bruce begins to navigate the car through the dimly lit car park trying to get out into the open world.

“You ready?” he plainly asks flicking his eyes to you.

You’re in the middle of putting on your seatbelt as he asks. Tugging at the belt you are able to get it unjammed and clicked in. Your backpack, which you had placed down, goes back on your lap. You almost forget to answer the question because of the seatbelt.

“I-um-yeah!”

Bruce is finding you too endearing with the way you quickly peer up to him but then you look right back down at you bag.

He hasn’t told you where you’re going but you don’t feel like there’s any trickery in his actions.

Your eyes dart around the interior of the cramped car with curiosity.

Everything is low down but there is quite a bit of leg room. The ceiling of the car looks soft and fuzzy, you just want to raise your hand and touch the softness but you resist the impulse to.

From your limited car knowledge you can tell the car is an automatic and that it’s electric, the soft humming and lack of petrol smell giving it away. There is a mini TV sized screen on the dashboard where a radio would normally be which probably can do everything and anything a person could ever want.

The seats are premium dark stained grey leather and the seatbelts only go around the middle of you and not across the chest.

You have the urge put your arm across Bruce’s chest as a secondary seatbelt much like a mother in the 70’s would do whilst driving her kid around with no seatbelts on.

Yet again you resist the urge to touch everything, that including Bruce. The car costs more than anything you’ve ever owned so there’s that voice in the back of your mind telling you not to ruin anything with your “grubby little mits”.

You feel more calm than you were so you place your bag down again on the floor so you can try to rearrange the seatbelt that awkwardly lays on your soft tummy.

Bruce watches you fidget from the corner of his eye, his sight quickly flickering down to where your hands are currently fiddling with the seatbelt across your tummy. 

He glances over your smaller hands tugging at the belt trying to get comfortable. If he had an ounce of courage then he would have spoken up, maybe tried to help you out however the quiet stoic man erases the thought from his head.

Bruce maybe a very handsome socialite with too much money but he still gets nervous. It’s rare and he covers it well with his normally somewhat blank facial expressions but being around you, he feels like a teenager on prom night. He has no clue what to do and he has the urge to just hold your hand like couples do.

He flickers his eyes back to the carpark in front of him, driving the car towards the upper levels.

You look out of the side window, trying not to look at Bruce’s reflection. You can see he keeps on looking at you and you’re not quite sure why.

-•- -•- -•-

Bruce has not stopped stealing quick glances at you since ever you’ve left Wayne Enterprises and even now when the both of you are waiting in a mundane waiting area in another high-rise building, he can’t stop looking at you.

The waiting area that you’re both wait in is on the top floor of a tower filled with designer shops and boutiques.

A young woman, around your age, saunters out in a black and white waiter’s uniform with a faux smile that every low paid worker (including you) puts on. Her smile faulters when she sees Bruce but it’s soon plastered back onto her face.

“Mister Wayne, please allow me to guide you and your friend to your seats.”

Bruce and you follow the woman into the room, which is actually a massive café decked out with rich green hanging plants and those low lights that look like upside down plant pots. The walls are painted cream with some wooden panelling and there are many metal tables that look to be outside table sets with knitted pillows thrown on them. It’s really a Pinterest girl’s wet dream.

“Where are we?” you whisper to Bruce as you sway closer to him, bag hugged around your front.

“Le déjeuner café.” Bruce says not even trying to do a French accent, “I believe it means lunch café in English.”

A half giggle half scoff comes from you as you’re both led to a window seat far away and hidden from any of the businessmen and bartenders that are mulling around.

Bruce pulls out a seat for you, which you sit down in, then he sits down himself.

This isn’t the best restaurant in Gotham that Bruce has a permanent reservation in for if the two of you ever go on a date but this isn’t a date, it’s merely just lunch.

“Either someone was taking the piss whilst naming this place or they’re a pretentious so and so.” You quietly utter, leaning in closer to Bruce with your hand covering you mouth so that he may only hear you speak.

A small red blush blooms on Bruce’s chest, thankfully his shirt covers it. However, if you do literally anything else the blush will travel up to his face blowing his calm facade.

You lean back down in your seat, your extended hand now becoming a headrest for your chin. Bruce does not say anything as you look at him, your smiley face slowly drooping.

“Oh, sorry that was a rash thing to say.” You worry.

Your thought process is that because you’ve sworn in front of him and said bad things about the cafe that he must be offended, that’s why he’s now silent.

Bruce is not offended.

You’re overthinking and Bruce is slowly becoming red in the face. Of course, you see the redness that is blooming up his neck, ears and cheeks as anger or annoyance and not Bruce being embarrassed about the fact that he can’t take his eyes off of you or the fact that he already loves your humour.

“Hello!” a way too happy waiter says, both you and Bruce snapping your heads up to the young man, Bruce still red in the face and you giving him your best smile.

“I am Jack and I will be your waiter for today, here are the lunch menus, if you need anything from me then please call.”

This Jack gives you both a menu each and a small bow before walking off with a jovial chuckle.

“He is totally whipped Monica.” Jack the waiter says to Monica, a bartender who is currently cleaning some glasses, “The girl does look a bit scared though.”

“He’s a billionaire and she works at Star books, of course she's scared.”

“How do you know that?” the two workers begin to chatter like school children, a bet forming between the two, a bet to see how long it will take for either of you to ask each other out.

As they talk Bruce looks over the menu, his eyes keep on flicking up to you. At this very moment you’re searching through your backpack. A stack of random and crumple paper is pulled out along with a small pencil tin. You dig to the bottom of you bag and pull out a clear lunch box and a water flask. The rest of the contents of the bag are quickly shoved back in leaving your boxed lunch out.

“I-I already have some lunch.” You say holding up the clear box, “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry (y/n)” Bruce smiles.

“I don’t want the food to got to waste so…” you snap the side of the tupperware box up, the noise a little too loud in the large open planned room. Bruce motions Jack the waiter over to him and quickly mutters his order to him.

“What did you make?” Bruce asks in curiosity.

“Some pasta I made this morning.”

You tilt the box to show Bruce the cold pasta in the bigger compartment of the split-up lunch box, the condensation still clinging to the lid. In the smaller compartments are some cut up bits of fruit and two chocolate chip cookies because you wanted to treat yourself after the night you had.

A waiter comes back placing a scolding hot black coffee in front of Bruce.

The two of you begin eating and drinking in silence, Bruce keeping his eyes on you as he sips his bitter coffee and as you eat you cold pasta with a small fold up spork.

The hanging plants above and the wide wall window makes you feel like you’re in a greenhouse in the back of a forest like garden, one where little children would chase butterflies and parents would lie down in the tall grass.

Whilst the café is very modern in it’s ways Bruce does like to visit it over any other fancy rich person cafes. The aroma of the real life plants and the kind staff make Bruce keep coming back to it.

And right now he is very happy that he has brought you here.

You’re sitting spooning pasta into your mouth, covering each bite with a hand for you’re not used to eating in front of people like Bruce, plants surrounding you like a halo. It makes Bruce think about a picnic in the park or on the depths of the manor’s grounds, he would like to take you on a picnic one day.

“You not going to eat anything?” you ask with a hand covering your mouth, pasta still in the mists of being swallowed.

Bruce shakes his head.

“This isn’t really much of a lunch then.”

More silence graces you two, Bruce still staring with intense eyes. You place you lunch box down and push it towards him.

“Take a cookie.” Is all you demand to the older man. You raise your eyebrows looking at him, not doing anything until he takes one.

The blush that had once coved his entire body is gone but his ears are still red. Brace extends his hand and takes the smaller cookie, his head bobs into a thank you as he dunks it into his coffee.

“It’s very nice.” He says eating the thing in two bites.

“Well I still had some left over from my depression eating.” You tell him, “Sh- I shouldn’t have told you that.”

You pull you lunch box back and begin to eat your fruit slices, you normally don't talk about your depressive habits to anyone, so you're a tad embarrassed.

“My mother always said that soulmates always lose their filter when they are around their other half.” The look on Bruce’s face is one of nostalgia and slight sadness as he tries to reassure you, his brows knitting together in thought.

“Really!” you beam trying to get his to talk more instead of brooding in deep thoughts about the past. You know what happened to his parents, you’re not an idiot. You know the feeling of thinking about the past and getting stuck on the bad things rather than the good things.

“Yes.” Bruce replies his eyes connecting to yours, his brows unknitting into calmness.

“They were soulmates too weren’t they. Red strings, weren’t they?” you ask.

Way before coming to Gotham you’d heard of the long dead Wayne’s.

The old gossip magazines had a field day talking about the billionaire soulmates and their love life so when your parent(s) had you, a child with a soul string, they pushed the Wayne’s to be your role models.

On the weekends your parent(s) would place you in front of the TV with a fizzy drink and the cabinet filled with VCR’s and DVD’s, leaving you alone to rot away in front of the large boxed screen whilst they fucked off to wherever they always were.

“I remember there was this baby blue dress you mother wore I think it was to a movie premiere and the footage caught her string. It was bright red like a silk ribbon.” You reminisce, “It was way before I was born but I was shown the footage when I was younger."

You remember seeing the blurry footage of Martha Wayne in a pale blue dress with bright red soul string wrapped around her left hand. A bright smile on her face and round pearls around her neck; she must have been in her early thirties at least. Sometimes video cameras can pick up soul strings, though only people like yourself can still see them, but that blurry red string that wrapped around Martha Wayne’s hand had always fascinated little chubby you.

“A true beauty she was.” You say with a big smile.

That’s it.

Bruce Wayne has officially fallen for you.

He must have beaten a world record for falling so fast.

His face is shocked but not the classic dramatic wide eyed shocked. No, his lips are open like he wants to speak but he can’t and the blush is back on his cheeks. His eyes sparkle with such admiration. 

“It was the Cannes film festival; she left me with my father and Alfred.”

The two of you go silent again but you keep eye contact, the two of you melting each second you look at one another.

The rest of lunch is spent in relative silence every now then you bring up something. Anything from new year’s resolutions to talk about work to you telling Bruce about your late night art classes you take every Friday at the university.

Bruce takes a great interest in the art classes and he listens to you waffling about it for a good half an hour.

-•- -•- -•-

Next day you’re back to work.

It’s an extremely boring January day, so boring that one of the part time employees thought it would be funny to read out loud the latest Batman-est romance novel out loud as the day dwelled on.

It was rather funny considering that your co-worker does a very good Batman impression. 

After work instead of walking home you jumped on a crowded bus that dropped you right off in front of Gotham University.

Your art class, which you attend every Friday, is located in one of the older lesser used buildings of the university.

The crumbling red brick walls with wide bared windows covered in paint from students passed. It’s rather a shame that most of the art courses have moved to the new state of the art facilities that where paid for by your own soulmate and his company because the older building have that artistic charm to them.

The art class had started at half seven and finish at nine at night and it consists of mostly older people and tired art students who need extra credit. You stick out like a sore thumb being that you’re around the age of the art students but you much prefer talking with the older folk of the art class.

For most of the class you had been taught by an older gentleman how to make a canvas out of wood for you little project you’re planning. Considering that you aren’t that skilled with a saw and hammer you’ve actually made a rather good canvas.

“You’re so talented.” Moreen, an older woman in a wheelchair, says with her hand on your arm.

You help her place her water colour paintings on the drying rack along with helping her wash up her mason jars and paint pallet.

“I’m not that talented.” You try to convince as you dry your wet hands, “I could never paint flowers like you do.”

Before Moreen can tell you off like older people do when you oppose their opinions, even if you’re trying just to be modest, your art teacher calls for everyone’s attention.

“Alright everyone, just before you go I have some big news!” they seem to be buzzing in their place, “As you all know you all have to pay the fifty dollar tuition feed for a month’s classes.”

Groans of annoyance from both young and old ringing out across the class.

“Is this because we need to pay this months.” Moreen whispers rather loudly to you and her elderly friends.

You teacher looks straight at Moreen with an eagle’s glance silencing the wheelchair bound woman.

“As I was saying. You will all be getting a refund for all your classes for the Wayne foundation has kindly decided to cover your tuition.”

The groans turn to cheers and chatter as everyone rejoices. A shaky chuckle slips your lips as you shake you head. Of course, Bruce would do that, you did spend too long yesterday talking to him about you late night art classes.

It’s a mixture of feelings; you don’t want to feel like you have to rely on Bruce for money because he’s you soulmate and because you’re not so well off but then there’s also a swell of pride inside because he has paid for not just you but everyone’s classes.

You defiantly have to talk to him about it at sometime but all you do for now id strum a short “thank you” on your shared soul string, hoping that he’d understand why your thanking him.

The night sky is a deep shade of orange as you walk out of the exit of the classroom, the orange of the sky bleeding in with the humming yellow streetlamps that litter the campus.

With a small wave to Moreen and her friends you head off in the opposite direction down a path that goes alongside the university’s older buildings.

The trees sway as you walk with the large canvas under your arm.

You know where your heading. Like clockwork after every class you walk further into the university’s grounds knowing exactly which paths to take.

Near another exist where an old bench lays, one of those benches that have a dedication plaque on them, a very accustomed figure is slumped down. The gangly trees that line the older building swarm the sky with branches than look like hands and arms.

Shadows emerge from the stick trees but the shadows don’t startle you in anyway.

A murder of crows land in your path, the birds eagerly jumping closer to you, some going to the shadow sitting on the bench. Anyone else would have been afraid but you let out an existed laugh of joy as you greet your bird friends.

“Hi everyone! I’ve got bread!” you cheer to the hoping crows that swarm around your feet like little children, “Careful Monty, stop pecking my shoe or you won’t get any.”

A young crow who still has some fuzzy grey baby feathers carries on pecking at your shoe.

“Monty, do I have to get Jonathan here to tell you off?” you warn like a stern mother.

A menacing chuckle that’s so low it could rumble the ground echoes to your ears.

“Jonathan Crane come get your children off me!” you joke as you flop your body onto the wooden slabbed bench.

“Oh, they’re my children when they’re naughty. I see how it is.” The stick like man jokes back making you bloom a sweet smile. His long and angular face always softens when you’re around, his stiff body relaxes when you smile.

You get out a bag of stale bread from you backpack and hand him a slice so you can both feed the crows that you’ve befriended.

You've known Jonathan Crane for just over a year. You see before meeting the tired professor you had been going to the bench you now sit on before your art classes, killing the time before you had to go inside. It turns out when you befriend the small crow army that are loyal to Jonathan Crane that means you automatically get a new friend in the professor.

One day after your class the towering professor was waiting for you, a crow friend on his shoulder and he had approached you, rather angrily, because you had been feeding piece of bread from you sandwiches to his crow.

Apparently, one of the birds had jam stuck on their beak and Jonathan had to clean it out.

Once Jonathan had told you that you that you had almost started crying. One thing lead to another and you where sat on the bench telling the phycology professor your life story.

At first Jonathan was only interested in you in an academic way; he was curious about how such a normally looking woman had befriended his crows and then when you'd told him about your life he was even more interested. But the curiosity turned into a proper friendship, your before class talks with the crows turning into after class talks with Jonathan.

“Are you quite alright (y/n)?” Jonathan dryly asks as he feeds a crow on his shoulder. He knows there is much on you mind and he wants to hear about it.

“I’m that obvious huh?” you crumble bread in your hands allowing the crows to fly down and grab the crumbs.

“I can read you like a book.” He states.

“Read me then!” you demand turning to look at him.

Jonathan Crane turns around with no shame and looks you up, down and then straight in the eyes reading you like a book. His face never ceases to amaze you. His face is long and his cheek bones are pronounced like a models but the permanent black circles under his eyes shatter the illusion of societal beauty.

Dark brown hair that has many singular white hairs plagued throughout his head, the hair always being no shorter that his chin. He is certainly in need of another haircut because you have learnt that the professor is very particular when it comes to his style. 

His grey sunken eyes that bore into you are covered with a pair of wired half mood glasses that always slid down his thin and long nose. His nose is so peculiar but so handsome. The years of academia and hidden trauma have indeed aged the man. He could be anywhere between his early thirties or late forties but you think he has aged like fine wine.

“You should have called me.” His eyes stay on you, his figure leaning over you like a tall shadow.

Regardless of your height Jonathan is leagues taller than you. Much like a cartoon his is very tall and slim like a string bean and you are smaller and plump, two opposites that have attracted together.

“What do you mean Jon?” you try to act unaware. 

“You had another emotional collapse, you should have called me, I could have helped.”

“And have you psychoanalyse me?” you may rant to Jonathan a lot but sometimes you just feel off talking to him about your problems. At times you can have a heartfelt moment with the man and with other times you feel like a lab rat that he’s testing on.

“I helped the last time.” The last time you didn’t feel like a lab rat.

“Well, I wasn’t drunk out of my mine the last time-“ Monty the bird hops onto your lap, “-anyway there were more pressing matters to attend too.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve found my soulmate.”

His hands freeze the bread dropping from his hands for the murder of crows to feast on like vultures.

You turn your head to look at him, he seems more tense and you can tell he’s clenching his jaw. Jonathan does that when he’s thinking to hard. The line of his cheekbones become more defined and his lips pout outward just a bit.

“What are you thinking Jon?” you ask, shuffling over your softer body to his, your knee touching his thigh.

“Nothing of your concern.” He brushes you off like the crumbs on his pressed trouser leg, “Tell me about them.”

“ _He’s_ nice.” Is all you can say, you don’t feel like indulging your odd friend about the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne.

“Are you dating this man?”

“Jon!” you playfully slap the bony leg of Jonathan Crane.

“Are you?” he demands to know.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to date anyone at the moment. I’m finally stable in my life and I don’t want to fuck it up.” You fiddle with bread bag, “But it’s early days so who knows what could happen.”

You aren’t opposed to dating Bruce but you know it would be too quick to date him right at this moment. You begin to tell Jonathan about Bruce without actually telling him your soulmate is Bruce Wayne.

Jonathan Crane looks normal as you babble on about your feelings, about finding your soulmate but jealously bubbles up inside.

Batman has already been messing up the Scarecrow's plans and just by being your soulmate he is going to completely shatter them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! Jonathan Crane is in the midst.  
> This Jon is my version of the lanky fear boi so he's like a mixture of comic Crane and Cillian Murphy Crane.  
> The DCU is messed up so I'm fixing it and that starts with the villains (Leto's joker was piss poor).
> 
> Minor edit done: Apparently Ben Affleck has brown eyes and I'm an idiot who wrote blue eyes for Bruce. So I've changed it.  
> It's because I can't look people in the eyes that I can't tell what colour peoples eyes are, even if they're on screen.


	4. Irritation and fear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear begins to trickle into Jonathan Crane's mind as you become somewhat closer to Bruce Wayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:  
> Some canon typical violence, needles (the normal with Jonathan Crane), brief mention of neglectful childhood (also Crane), just Jonathan Crane (see end of chapter for a longer description about my version of Crane.)
> 
> -•- -•- -•- 
> 
> This is a tad shorter that normal but I hope you all like it!  
> I love reading your comments so thank you for them and I hope that I get some more, please tell me how I'm doing so far because I'm not that good at writing...

Scraps of paper mock you as you scribble down another painting idea, the idea being immediately scribbled out with your pen and thrown on a pile of other scribbles next to the till.

You’re currently sat at your desk in Star Books, the quite upstairs of the book shop being filled with your frustrated little noises as art block rages you.

It is a Monday and you’re bored and you’re a tad irritated.

The last Friday you had created a canvas in your art class and you had a rather nice chat (well more like ramble) with your friend Jon about life and finding your soulmate. The chat had lasted an hour or so but unlike normal Jonathan Crane did not try to get you to stay for longer.

Normally he’d try and entice you into his office with the promise of a cup of tea and some music, and on most Friday nights after feeding the crows you would take him up on the offer. However, that last Friday he had not invited you inside and he didn’t even say goodbye to you, all he did was walk back into the building leaving you surrounded by crows.

“…Goodbye then…” you remember shouting out as you looked at his thin hunched figure enter the old building. It was rather odd considering Jonathan likes having you around, even though you can drive him up the walls sometimes with you babbling.

You do somewhat understand that he might have had some papers to mark or some project to finish because he is a busy man. But even so, on the days when he’s invited you into his office, he’d be doing some kind of work whilst you sat in his armchair next to an antique record player that played old classical records.

Now on a Monday morning you are left wondering about the long limbed professor whilst trying to figure out what to paint on your canvas and it’s not going well.

“Confusing man.” You mumble.

In other news on the weekend, specifically on the Saturday, you had an hour long conversation with Bruce through your soul string. Apparently, he was in another meeting and you were the only person he was listening to. Due to him being in that meeting his replies where short but that didn’t really matter considering, like much of the time, you “talked” for most of the conversation.

Because of that time spent talking Bruce had asked you out for another lunch at the same café on Thursday, though this time at your actual lunch time so it’s more convenient for you. So now you have another lunch planned with Bruce Wayne!

That little moment of talking in his meeting had turned into you casually sending him messages at random points in the day mostly when you were bored or hand nothing to do.

Also, starting on Sunday, when you had woken up very early to you neighbours fighting, you had strummed out a “Good morning!” to him much like you used to do when you were a child.

Too many years ago when your where around 10 years old you had begun to strum a “Good morning!” to Bruce hoping he’d sent one back. Regardless of your mood the best part of you day would be waking up to speak to your soul mate and for the first couple of years you would even send out “Good night!” messages to him when you go to bed.

However, the goodnights where soon dropped because of the lack of replies, that and nearly thirteen year old you had begun to stay up extremely late so your bed time was much close to your wake up time.

The whole good morning thing was given up on when you were sixteen years old due to your disappointment of not getting any replies, so now being a twenty something year old it feels a tad odd to start up the old routine again.

However, it feels just right now that you get a reply from Bruce.

It’s only been a few days since meeting him and you’re already messaging him good morning everyday like a teenager texting their boyfriend each morning.

You shake your head, making the thoughts of Bruce go away.

With a sign you pick up the scrap papers from the discarded pile next to the register. Many of the scribbles are of books (for you are surrounded by them) and other things in your view. Your artist mind is telling you that you need to paint something with purpose on that canvas like Moreen with her watercolour flowers but are books really that meaningful to you.

“Sure, I do like reading but I wouldn’t consider myself a bookwork.” You think as you hold up a bit a paper with a book and a cartoon cat draw on it, “I do like animals though.”

Your nose scrunches up as you think of what animals you could draw.

“I do feed that stray cat but she only comes when she wants.”

Every now and again a stray ginger cat will climb the fire escape and jump onto your window, she’ll meow until you open up the widow and let her in. She will eat a can of tuna you’d give her, drink a heap of clean water and allow you to brush out her matted fur, then she’ll pounce off into the night until the next month or so where she’ll be back at your window meowing for food and some pats on the head.

Unlucky for you she has already been a couple weeks prior, her eating a whopping two cans of tuna, so you know she won’t be back for a month or so.

A long hum reverberates through your lips as you pick up another piece of paper and begin drawing animals you might be able to draw.

There is obviously the array of cats (both wondering house cats and strays) in Gotham who you could draw and there are always some cool bugs in the small parks untouched by Gotham’s smog.

Bugs are cool and all but you still don’t think you could paint them.

Your lift your hands to your face and sigh, fingers raking through your hair follicles is frustration but what catches your eyes is your black and white soul string glowing happily around your left wrist.

An idea hits you, your right hand hovers over the string to pluck out a message to your soul mate.

“Bruce? Can we talk?” you pluck out awaiting to see if your soul mate will answer, a small smile fluttering on your face at the thought of talking to him.

-•- -•- -•-

“She must be mine, she must be mine, she must be min, sh-“

Jonathan Crane mutters as he watches bubbles fizzle in a round beaker filled up with the liquid form of his fear toxins, the concoction spitting at him letting off small clouds of vapour.

He does not mutter that you _are_ his but he mutters that you _must_ be his. He fully knows that you’re just out of reach, you could be his but you aren’t quite his yet.

It infuriates him to no end.

He knows that the two of you were dancing around each other like a couple in a Regency book like his own twisted version on Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet.

Only your soulmate, that man Crane undoubtably hates despite not knowing him, is slowly becoming your Mr Darcy whilst he is being pushed away.

“Am I just Mr. Collins to her!” he screams in frustration, spilling the bubbling beaker on to the scratched school desk the liquid quickly evaporating into the air.

Jonathan hates the idea that he is just a bumbling idiot who you would find disgusting quite like the creepy character of Mr Collins from the novel Pride and Prejudice.

He had read the book when he was younger and he had truly despised the character deeply.

Crane remembers first reading that book; it was a rare occasion when his grandmother had left him alone in the house for a few hours. Young Jonathan’s curiosity had gotten the better of him and he had sneaked down to the living room and taken a book off his grandmother’s bookshelf to read.

His grandmother was a cruel woman who despised him for just breathing and for most of his childhood he had locked himself in his room away from her.

That day when he was about eight years old, he had read the whole book in the long hours his grandmother was gone and little Jonathan with a knotty mop of brown hair and a missing tooth had pictured himself as a dark and mysterious man like Mr Darcy.

Crane may not look like it but he has always had a deep love for old romance books by the likes of Jane Austin and of course he has always loved classic horrors such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, it’s one of the only pleasant memories of his childhood, him stealing his harsh Grandmother’s novels whilst she was off knows were.

Actually, you and him had bonded over you unpleasant childhoods.

You had talked about your negligent guardians one dull whilst you sat in his big armchair in his office whilst he had marked papers.

It’s one of the many variables that shows Jonathan and you are compatible.

About a month into the friendship Jonathan had comprised a list of pros and cons of your friendship and a neglectful childhood for both of you meant that you two must be well suited for one another, or at least that’s what the mad professor thinks anyway.

“Damn it all!” Jonathan screams with a beast like rage.

Jonathan is angry.

Now hunched over his hands bunching up into tight fists already pale knuckles turning paper white his anger quickly turns into fear.

The toxins are taking effect on him, exploding his tiny fear of losing you into the temper tantrum he’s having right now.

Your soulmate had to get in the way and ruin it all, that’s all he’s thinking about.

He had a plan to ask you out the last Friday after your class, he was sure it would cheer you up and he was quite sure you’d say yes. But fate is cruel and Jonathan Crane fears losing you, his only true friend and the woman he has grown to love and all you could talk about was your soul mate.

Currently standing in one of the abandoned science room in the old building of Gotham university, officially the room with its decades old Bunsen burners and chipped longstanding black board is not is off limits but everyone knows its Crane’s little heaven for experiments.

He would never show you the room, he always takes you to his office to listen to music, not in the cramped room with fear vapours looming around making the oddly handsome professor more scared than he already is.

Jonathan paces the room, his steps becoming more agitated as the toxins melt his brain into pure anxiety.

Scarecrows and losing you, that’s what he fears.

It’s the type of fear that stays in the back of your head whispering bad words and worries to you, the type of fear that will eventually consume you and make you go mad.

Crane knows it well, he has been dealing with it for most of his adult life, that and the fact his is a psychology professor who fully understand that he’s spiralling.

It irks him to no end that he is not mentally all there and that he understands he’s not mentally all there but he still does nothing to help his state.

That’s why he started to make the fear toxin.

It was originally an antianxiety medicine to cure his fears but it only cured him in the short term. When the effects had worn off he had become more scared so he tried again and again to prefect it only for him to slowly become the twisted man he is today.

Then of course he had met you and his fear of losing you had come to life like Frankenstein’s monster, haunting him until his death. His fear of scarecrows has also grown (but that was mostly due to his fear toxins).

Jonathan Crane is a broken man trying to be fearless but in doing so he is becoming as insane as someone like the Joker.

All he does is dress up as the scarecrow, running around Gotham testing his fear toxin on unwilling victims to try to find the right concoction of toxins to cure him only to be stopped by the Gotham bat himself.

But Batman won’t stop him this time, he must cure his fears, he must get you.

-•- -•- -•-

The soft vibrating of your shared soul string brings Bruce out of his hyper-fixated state.

He slides out from under the Batmobile, grease on his white shirt with the top buttons undone and sleeves rolled up, his grey trousers now oily and creased.

“Bruce? Can we talk?” you carry on with your message, “It’s nothing bad I just need your input on something.”

Bruce wipes his hands on an old rag as he receives you message, a soft smile creeping it’s way onto his face.

“Go ahead.” He strums. He has been awaiting a message from you ever since you plucked a good morning to him whilst he was still out on patrol the night, well morning, before.

“So, you know about art, right? If you where going to have an animal painting hung on the walls of the great Wayne manor what animal would it be?”

Bruce is bombardment with flashes of Wayne manor, a place he has let rot over the years, fill his mind, good memories of the people he has lost. His parents, Dick, Jason… It’s all too much for him so for too many years he has been living in a holiday home on the giant Wayne manor property far enough away from the looming decaying eye sore that is his childhood home.

To think that this small modernist home next to a manmade lake is on the same property as the famed Wayne manor.

For many years now ever since Jason’s dea- ever since the house felt too big he had left the place to rot away. He even closed off the old Batcave and made this new one under the lake (though the two caves are connected by a small underground tunnel.)

Bruce gives your question a good think despite the flood of memories.

“Well normally my mom either had portraits of our pets or landscape paintings that incorporated animals in them.” 

Martha Wayne was always a person to cover the walls in painting and photos important to her.

“I don’t have a pet to paint though.”

“Neither do I… what about some kind of scene with some birds in.” Bruce suggests, “I remember there was this painting of a Gotham street that used to be in the library, it had crows in it.”

When he was a kid and more into looking at pictures than reading books little Bruce used to go to the giant Wayne manor library and look at all the paintings and book illustrations.

He had found out at a young age that most of the more interesting picture where in the library.

Pictures such as a bunch of Gotham street painting by a local artist his mother loved, a plethora of small neatly framed grey photos of his parent before they met and married and many yellowing and crinkled maps of old Gotham.

The rectangular painting of a dimly lit Gotham street swarmed by crows was oddly his mother favourite piece along with it being the crowning glory in the big library’s many mini art collection.

“CROWS!” you loudly strum, the string snapping on Bruce’s wrist like an elastic band. The snap does not hurt but it does indicate that you’ve had your light bulb moment.

“Crows?” Bruce questions.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

He can feel your joyous laughs through the string, it’s so very contagious but he does not laugh, he only smiles a big wide smile.

His silence spurs you on to carry on talking.

“I kind of befriended a murder of crows.” Bruce stays more silent but not because of any negative emotion but because his smile has become impossibly big. So big that his face has begun to ache.

“Tell me about it.” Is all Bruce messages back to you.

All he wants to do is listen to you and for now he’s satisfied with the vibration of the glowing soul string that connects the two of you. He could give you his phone number maybe call you up so he can hear you voice but there’s this eruption of emotion that happens when you both talk through your shared string.

His skin vibrates warm and it sends shivers down his spine like you’re there whispering in his ear.

As much as he realises that he’d much rather have you physically here with him whispering in his ear he knows that might come off as creepy considering that you’ve literally just met.

So, he’ll just have to stick with the vibrations that travel up his arm for now.

“Well there are a lot of crows on the university campus so-“ you begin babbling through the soul string, the cord buzzing with life.

Bruce hangs on to every word you send, the vibrations clearly spelling out your excitement and love for what you’re talking about. He imagines you at home curled up on your sofa plush body warm and cosy as you speak, it hasn’t completely come to his mind that you’re at work.

“-so now I share custody of my little crow family with my friend Jonathan Crane.”

Bruce has been listening to your every word but he feels a pang of jealously once you finish your ramble, your last words being the name Jonathan Crane.

“Jonathan Crane?” he questions to himself but not to you as he types the name into the bat computer.

“Is he nice?” he asks you as a lone image of the skinny professor appears one of the many monitors.

The image on the screen is of Crane from Gotham university’s archives, it’s probably the image on the dull eyed man’s staff ID card.

“He can be very cranky at times but he’s a good person...” you seem to drift of in thought, the vibrations of the soul string dying down.

Bruce wait a moment to see if you are going to talk some more but nothing comes. Unknown to him you’re dealing with a customer but the silence allows him to properly look at some of the images of the professor of psychology.

Three more pictures of the thin faced professor are dug up; a blurry group photo of the University staff with Crane trying to hide in the back of the crowd. He looks to be scoffing at the other staff members and his height making him stick out like a sore thumb.

Then there is a newspaper article with a photo of a teenager holding large silver science fare award, a background display of a scarecrow behind the greasy teen Jonathan Crane. An older woman grips onto his shoulder like talons.

Finally, there’s an image of him with a woman.

For the first time in the photos Crane looks happy. He has a small smile on his lips and he looks relaxed. Whoever the woman is he is holding her close, so close that most of her face is buried into his neat brown suit and sweater vest. She looks to be laughing, her smile bright and beaming even nestled in Cranes chest and her hands grabbed onto him as she steadies her laughing body.

Crane is peering down at the woman with such admiration, he is looking at you with such love.

It dawns on Bruce that that round laughing woman is you.

You look so different in the photo.

Your hair is shorter and blue. With natural coloured roots showing, the once bright sapphire had faded into a baby blue. The dress you were wearing is off the shoulder with long sleeves.

The dress is so loud compared to the you Bruce is getting to know. Your hips and tummy protrude in the best way, the red fabric complementing the parts that you’re normally insecure about. The glitter on the dress sparkling through the bat computer’s monitors like a beacon of light.

“Ah sorry Bruce I was just with a customer.” You message snapping the older man out of his brooding, “Anyway, crows! Let me tell you about them!”

Bruce clicks away from the image of you and Crane, he does not want to dig into your personal life, he’d much rather you tell him more about this professor yourself, if you want to.

-•- -•- -•-

“P-please don’t hurt me please I-“ the drunk man stops his pleas for help as a needle jabs into his neck filling his veins with fear toxins.

Jonathan Crane, no, the Scarecrow stands over him like a death omen, the glowing translucent yellow eyes of his mask not fully covering up his crazed bloodshot eyes. Ropes are sewn through the long broken gasmask’s mouth, taunting the victim with a devilish smile.

The sack material all blood stained and sewn up solidifies Cranes spiral out of control, it solidifies that he is the Scarecrow.

The drunk’s eye expands to black, his face dropping then scrunching up in fear. He tries to scramble away but ends up crashing his back into a heap of rubbish.

“Now, now. Don’t be rude, you’re my new test subject.” Scarecrow’s voice is hoarse but low, a hint of impatient leaking out from his normally patient tone.

Crane digs into his pocket of his suit, an old torn brown suit held together with ropes and burlap sack patches.

It’s odd to think that it’s the same suit he wore when he took you to one of his work events, the same event where you wore that red dress that he so dearly loves on you.

You.

The fear of losing you has spurred on his evil doings.

Before he had met you, he had been doing his fear experiments on his students without their knowledge but over the last year since meeting you he has slowly started to become so desperate to cure his “illness” , as his grandmother would call it, that he has grown to do truly evil things to be “cured”.

Out of his pocket he retrieves a syringe and vile to draw blood from the dreading man before he starts to become out of control with fear.

It’s simple what the Scarecrow does.

First, he finds a weak victim, one that won’t fight back the lanky man. Normally he picks the homeless and drunks, on occasion he’ll find a student to scare.

Next, he’d inject them with his new and improved fear toxin that was originally a homemade drug for anxiety. If the drug works and calms the victim down then he has won, Crane can cure his fears and get the girl. If it fails his victim will quickly become scared and erratic, plagued with visions of what they fear most and Crane will have to do more experiments.

What this drunk businessman fear right now is losing his family.

Scarecrow kneels down and draws blood from the man frozen in fear.

The drunk’s eyes dart to the syringe filled with his own blood then to ghostly figure behind Crane. The ghosts look like his family all beaten and dead. The hallucinations have begun and the man is so scared.

The man snaps.

Scarecrow steps aside so the man can run out of the dark alley is absolute fear.

“Scarecrow.” The low humming growl of Batman’s voice rings out as Crane syringes the blood into a safe vile.

Under the mask Jonathan Crane smile, he was waiting for the Gotham bat to arrive so he can let out some of his pent up anger.

The melancholic sound of Gotham, car horns and buzzing lights, turns into utter chaos, screams filling the air and the sound of punches fill the dark alleyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, we're setting up the antagonist to this story!
> 
> So here are a few things you need to know (sorry to the people who've only watched the films, I read the comics so there's some non film stuff in there...) :
> 
> 1.) I’m fixing the messiness of the whole Bruce not living in the manor stuff. 
> 
> They made Bruce live in a holiday home so I envisioned the home is still on Wayne property but the property is so big that it’s further enough away from the manor that he doesn't have to worry about his childhood home.  
> The lake is also manmade because it has Batcave 2.0 under it and I’ve changed it to that he did once live in the manor when he had kids.  
> (Yes, I’m alluding to the Robins because if they could show us Jason’s Robin suit then I can write them into this!) 
> 
> 2.) Jonathan Crane is not in the Justice League/DCU films so I’ve made up my own version of him.
> 
> He is a mixture between the original comic Jon, the Jon from the TV show Gotham and Cillian Murphy's Jon.  
> Thankfully I’m not giving him tattoos like they did with the Joker.  
> So yeah, he's my version so he isn’t completely the same as other iterations of the Scarecrow.
> 
> 3.) Here’s the dress that I’m talking about more or less (first found on Pinterest) : https://www.baeville.com/products/gib2-gd7168sq-pl-id-53239 , you can think of what ever kind of off the shoulder sparkly red dress, I was just looking through Pinterest to find a reference image.

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is merely an outlet for my feelings as a plus size woman with some issues who also loves DC comics/films.  
> I will not be writing graphic scenes of self harm but I will be going into the reader's past which does involve a suicide attempt.  
> However, when this comes up I will use the right trigger warnings and I won't go into graphic details about it, I'd rather write about emotion than gore. 
> 
> That being said this is a Batman fic so there will be fight scene in the future. I may or may not do smut, I'm not sure yet.  
> If there is smut I will make it skippable for all my people who don't like reading that stuff.
> 
> Anyway, serious things aside Ben Affleck's batman could have been something soooo good so this is also my attempt at a fix it fic.  
> Also please don't steal this, thanks!  
> -•- -•- -•-  
> To repeat here are some suicide hotlines from all over the world if you need it (link to Tumblr post):  
> https://petalier.tumblr.com/post/188047585003
> 
> Please tell me is I've missed any trigger warnings and/or is this like doesn't work or if it's outdated.


End file.
